The Trail is the Teacher is Clay Bonnyman Evans’ episodic account of his 2016 Appalachian Trail thru hike.

July 2016

Springing for a room at the Microtel in Hamburg, Pa. was a smart, if expensive, move on my part after my ordeal with Lyme disease. I ate heartily for the first time in many days, watched a great movie I’d never seen before (Goodfellas) and slept. A lot.

After Pennsylvania chewed up my first pair of Altras, I had a new pair sent to me. Clay Bonnyman Evans.

I even ordered another new pair of Altra Olympus 2.0 trail shoes. While I loved the shoes — the wide toebox and hefty cushioning had greatly reduced the pain of sesamoiditis — the rocks of Pennsylvania had eaten the first pair for lunch, splitting both shoes on both sides after only 350 miles. And while I have my issues with Amazon, the fact that the shoes would arrive just 20 hours later testifies to the astonishing convenience of our online world, whatever its down sides.

Accumulating evidence from hikers and shelter logbooks, I would soon realize that Pennsylvania kills not only shoes and boots, but also many hiker dreams. So many people got sick, suffered serious injuries among the rocks, lost their mojo or simply got bored somewhere along those 229 miles of trail.

I slept until 9:30 a.m., nearly missing breakfast at the hotel, but feeling better already after the first two doses of antibiotics and a handful of Ibuprofen. After repacking, I walked across the road for a resupply, then waited in the lobby until mid-afternoon until the shoes arrived. I caught a hitch back to the pavilion in Port Clinton.

“But the doctor says it’s OK, and I’m on antibiotics,” I explained to Jody, who (understandably) thought I was being stubborn — nay, stupid — to continue. “I’m going to gather a day or two of evidence, see how it goes. If I still feel crappy, then I’ll quit.”

And while I felt better, I was all too aware how exhausted I felt after only minimal activity. But the company that night at the pavilion gave me back a little pep. I ordered a pizza with a smell-the-roses young hiker named Ninja Turtle; Toastybuns had yellow-blazed to Port Clinton; Olive and Olive’s Human showed up; and I met Rumblejunk, a correspondent for the Sounds of the Trail podcast — who, despite my nifty Lyme horror story, was not moved to put a microphone in front of my face.

That night I tried to moderate the argument running through my mind: Going to be hot and humid again tomorrow. I should be taking it easy. There’s no rush, I wrote. Except I hate sitting around! I really want to do a 16-20 day tomorrow.

By morning, I felt a little feverish, but impatience had won the debate during the night. I woke up, packed up, gave Olive a pat, and headed north.

~

On the advice of Dr. Chun, who said further exposure could result in reinfection, I had resolved to put up with a little discomfort in an effort to ward off ticks. So I tucked the cuffs of my zip-off Columbia pants into a pair of calf-high REI socks, donned a loose, long-sleeve button-up shirt and doused myself with DEET. I also had sprayed my clothes with permethrin from the hiker box at the pavilion the night before.

But just a half-mile into the steep, 700-foot climb out of Port Clinton, I dumped my pack on the ground and ripped off of all that clothing as if I were a man aflame. Re-outfitting myself in my good ol’ Brooks Sherpa running shorts and a short-sleeve shirt, I made a miraculous conversion to DEET-ism, placing all my faith in the miracles of modern chemistry. Still hot, but no longer on fire, I continued up the hill.

In Pennsylvania the basic pattern of the AT is as follows: Steep climb to a ridge, long ridgewalk in a northeasterly direction, almost always on rocks, steep descent to the next road or river, repeat. That day alternated stretches of decent tread — if I could see dirt, I was thrilled — with big, chunky, gnarly rocks.

Eckville Shelter. Wikitrails.org.

In early afternoon, I gave myself a break and walked two-tenths of a mile down Hawk Mountain Road to the unusual Eckville Shelter, located behind a caretaker’s house and featuring a solar shower. Cloudy skies meant I was in for a gasping, Navy-style session behind the curtain, but I scrubbed every crevice of my body vigorously with Dr. Bronner’s, muttering triumphantly at any ticks I might have picked up.

An 800-foot climb brought me to the Pinnacle (mile 1226.7) and Pulpit Rock (mile 1224.5) — Clambering over everything from refrigerator-sized boulders to basketball-sized blocks for mile after mile, I wrote. But at least those spots offered long, lovely views of the Lehigh Valley, including of the virginal rain curtains trailing down from sky to the west.

For my first day back on trail, and considering all the rocks, I was pleased at my progress. After slipping and sliding two-tenths of a mile downhill to fill up at Dans Spring, I finally looked at Guthook’s and was thrilled to see I was just 1.5 miles from the Allentown Hiking Club Shelter — a half hour more!

Five minutes later, I was completely drenched after the sky’s cup ranneth over. I spent the next mile splashing and grumbling. Then, as if I were in a ridiculous cartoon, the torrent stopped a minute before I reached the shelter, which was already crowded and draped with wet gear. I snagged one of the narrow, shelf-like upper bunks and set about making dinner and preparing for the next day.

I am, I confess, an unregenerate “pack exploder” — once I’ve got my pad out, whether in a tent or shelter, I can’t seem to help but haul out virtually everything in my pack. I am downright ritualistic when it comes to placing items back where they belong — as thru hiker and ATC ridgerunner Miss America says, “You should be able to find anything you need in total darkness” — but I view every day as a new opportunity to achieve Packing Perfection®, that elusive state of hiking nirvana in which everything comes out of the pack precisely in the order needed. For this reason, and no other, I can’t see myself ever using a hammock — I love sleeping in them, but there’s no place to safely explode!

My fellow travelers that night included chatty Chef Ducky from Indiana and her friend Monarch, a woman of few words from Utah, and Tapeworm, a quiet, good-looking younger guy. Later, those on the floor scooched and made enough froom for a soaked SOBO couple that burst around the corner in a hail of noise. Bonnie and Clyde immediately turned on music and began the lengthy project of rolling cigarettes on clumsy, hand-cranked machine that had to weigh two pounds, at least.

There was something off about the pair from the get-go. I heard Bonnie tell someone she was a former medical student who had recently spent time in a mental hospital. And when Clyde couldn’t find his cell phone, he began muttering immediately and audibly that someone in the shelter had stolen it.

“We’re thru hiking SOBO,” Bonnie announced. “We started at Killington, Vermont. We’re from up there so we don’t need to do the Whites and Maine.”

Clyde complained bitterly about the misery of the “boardwalks in New Jersey” and railed against the exposure and difficulty of the Knife Edge (mile 1246.4), blasting an unnamed “they” for so callously forcing hikers to traverse a rock formation so insane you could easily fall to your death.

“They’re gonna get sued some day,” he proclaimed, cigarette embers flying from his emphatic hand.

It was one of just two times on the AT that I was uncomfortable with people at a shelter.

“I wasn’t too thrilled about that crazy couple,” Monarch said a couple days later. She thought they might be on meth.

At the bottom of the hill the next morning I saw a hand-written note from someone who had found a cell phone on the trail: Call your number and I’ll get it back to you! But Bonnie and Clyde were headed SOBO and I doubt they ever saw it.

I’ve traversed another feature called the “the knife edge,” on the way to the summit of one of Colorado’s more challenging 14,000-foot mountains, Capitol Peak. It’s extremely exposed (check out this video) but not, in fact, very difficult if you know what you’re doing. I couldn’t imagine Pennsylvania’s version was anywhere near as exposed, and I was right. It was a rocky ridge that required the use of hands here and there, and a little slippery in the rain, but it seemed no more dangerous than many other places on the trail.

I spent much of the day walking with Old Spice, a speedy, 51-year-old Pennsylvania guy who was hiking the trail with his son, Axe. His son was (for reasons I can’t recall) off trail that day, so Old Spice was slackpacking. Our conversation made the time and miles pass swiftly. But once again, the skies burst asunder 1.5 miles from the nearest shelter, unleashing battering deluge. It poured for a solid half hour, but by the time we reached Outerbridge Shelter, the clouds had moved on and the sun was out as if it had all been a dream.

Reclining in the shelter was a group of six battered-looking but cheery young people on a SOBO section hike. When I found out that two of the girls had horrific blisters, I rummaged for my trusty roll of Leukotape and played trail doctor. I could not believe what I saw when one girl put her feet in my lap: the aqua-painted nails on two middle toes of one foot had been pushed up by pearls of white blister, giving them the appearance of googly Gollum eyes. After lancing them with a clean needle to reduce the pain and pressure, I taped her up. Then I cleaned and taped ragged, bloody blisters on the other girl’s feet.

“Your trail name should be Doc,” said the girl with the blue-eyed toes.

In a most welcome impersonation of Rocky Mountain weather, the rain had yielded to way to a warm, breezy, surprisingly dry afternoon. Despite our soaking, Old Spice and I were thoroughly dry by the time we hit the bridge across the Lehigh River. His cousin arrived to pick him up 15 minutes later and they gave me a ride to beautiful downtown Palmerton.

Palmerton was long notable to hikers for two things: the Sunny Rest nudist resort on the edge of town (I didn’t go, but The Dude told me it was fun) and the Jail House Hostel, literally a bunch of unused jail cells in the basement of a government building. After the jailhouse closed following the 2015 season, the enterprising owner of the excellent Bert’s Steakhouse & Restaurant rigged up a shower off the alley, set out a bunch of cots in a cinder-block garage and, voila!, a low-key, cheap hostel was born.

During a short after-dinner walk — I did mention I can’t sit still, didn’t I? — in the park across the street, I was baffled to see dozens of people, young and old, wandering around at dusk staring resolutely at their smart-phone screens. Finally, while dabbling my feet in a small stream where two more sensible boys were fishing, I asked their mother what was going on.

This cultural wave — some sort of interactive game where you seek out and collect Pokemon characters and items in something like a game of virtual geocaching (I think) — crested in a few faddish weeks in July, then crashed and receded just as quickly. Thankfully, I never saw anyone playing on the AT.

Tapeworm also took a $10 bunk out behind Bert’s, joining me and a kid who was waiting to be picked up the next morning. The kid (I neglected to write down his name) was abandoning the AT for good after contracting a painful-looking case of cellulitis on one leg.

“I was going to just get off for a week or two, until I got better,” he said. “But then I started thinking. I’m not having that much fun, so what else could I be doing with my time?”

PA DESTROYS DREAMS, I wrote that night.

But every time I truthfully answered a local and said their state was the armpit of the AT so far, they cheerily agreed, often taking it as a compliment on their “toughness.” Well, tough is one thing, but miserable’s another. The trail had been plenty tough all along but there were rewards. Pennsylvania’s many physical miseries were, for me, compounded day after day by the mental drudgery of an endless, steaming green tunnel that only occasionally coughed up a view or glimpse of wildlife.

Looking back at the climb from Lehigh Gap.

Having said all that, the next day — the next morning, anyway — was a highlight. Tapeworm and I rose early and caught a swell hitch from an old local guy who took us all the way up to the trail. I reveled in the rocky scramble from Lehigh Gap up to the Palmerton Zinc Pile Superfund site, which is, according to some geeks at WhiteBlaze.net, the 32nd steepest half mile on the trail. This was my kind of hiking.

And, thanks to the ongoing mitigation of the environmental contamination atop the ridge, the next four miles are a lovely stroll along a grassy hillside. I sang out loud and stopped every few minutes to eat ripe blackberries and raspberries like a bear, not caring even a little whether they might be loaded with toxic chemicals from the EPA site just up the hill.

Views! Berries! Open air! No rocks! I wrote.

But then, after a few miles of this pleasant ambling, you come to a gravel road used by vehicles working on the Superfund site. Following the road would be a blue blaze, so in good conscience, you follow the white blazes into the woods, and you are soon back to the grind, painstakingly picking through a jumble of granite blocks and rocks for several miles. It appears to be perfectly flat in Awol, but only because the scale of the elevations can’t pick up the constant hopping up and down from rock to rock, boulder to boulder, crag to crag. It’s not just tiring and tough on your feet, but also mentally exhausting — lose focus for one second and you might well sprain an ankle, bust a wrist or knock yourself silly.

Halfway through the obstacle course, I caught a tantalizing glimpse of the Superfund service road through the trees. All I’d have to do was scramble 50 yards down, then walk it out on a smooth gravel track … ahhhh. But no. I’d blown my purism several times over, but I wouldn’t feel very good about myself in the morning if I skipped part of the trail for no other reason than it was a pain in the ass. So I turned away from temptation, and several miles later, feet throbbing, tears springing to my eyes, stared at the utility road where it met the trail…

It pissed me off because that day demonstrated, in theory, that designers could have built the trail along the flanks of all those Pennsylvania ridges, instead of sadistically forcing hikers across all the endless, brutal, rock-strewn miles that geological history has scattered like broken glass across the top. It’s almost as if “they” said, “We’re going to make this MoFo as hard as we can possibly make it, no matter what….”

But, as if in reward for my refusal to blue-blaze, I saw bears No. 5 and 6 on that rocky ridge. I heard a cub yowl, then turned to see it tumble out of a tree and join mama. I got a nice view before they barreled down the far side, but once again, no photo.

After another long, hot, mind-numbing march through the green tunnel, I decided to hike a full mile down into Wind Gap on the promise of a good meal. But here was a town that didn’t cater to, or particularly appreciate, hikers. I ate some greasy high-priced food at a sports bar, where the server squinched her face in disgust each time she approached and pinched up the cash I laid upon the bar as if it were used toilet paper; she probably went back and put it in the microwave.

Tired and cranky, I considered knocking on a door to ask if I could pitch a tent in one of the big yards along the road. But fearing I’d be greeted with a shotgun, I hiked a mile uphill back to the trail. Two full sideways miles for a crummy, expensive supper.

After mounting the 500-foot climb to the next ridge, I found a flat spot off in the woods and pitched my tent. As I was cooking dinner, Monarch came rolling by, planning to hike into darkness to complete her first 30-mile day. She wanted to get within 10 miles of Delaware Water Gap — the end of PA! — where she planned to take a nero.

I feel sad, hot, tired and lonely, I wrote. Pennsylvania sucks. So glad it’s almost over.

In a reflection of the exhaustion the Keystone State had wreaked upon my body and soul, from the time I left Duncannon until the day I crossed into New Jersey, I took a grand total of four photos, averaging just one every two days.

A terrible photo of a turtle somewhere north of Duncannon, Pa. — one of just four photos I would take over the next eight days of hell. Clay Bonnyman Evans.

Fortunately, I was only 14 miles from the end of Penns(hell)vania myself. I pushed hard through more dastardly rocks and a very long, hot downhill slog, arriving at the Presbyterian Church of the Mountain Hostel — the oldest continuous hostel on the AT — just after noon the next day. Monarch was there. Tapeworm arrived later, as did a yellow-blazing Chef Ducky.

An old guy hanging around the hostel offered resupply rides for tips, and on the way back, I had him drop me at a barbecue place up the road. My thrill at putting Pennsylvania in the rearview mirror was tempered somewhat by unsettling news about my mother in Colorado and a nasty email connected to a business relationship I’d severed before I’d even set foot on the AT.

I also spent 45 minutes on the phone with Laura Richards, a former Scotland Yard investigator and co-producer of a new documentary who wanted to talk to me about my work on the JonBenet Ramsey murder case as a journalist. I wasn’t in the two-part movie, and haven’t seen it myself, but it was widely panned as exploitative, and the producers later were sued by the person they chose to finger for the murder based on irresponsible speculation.

Still, my spirits were high. I enjoyed a peach ice-cream cone from the parlor across the street with Monarch and Chef Ducky, and Monarch later gave me some cheese sticks, Cutie oranges and an avocado she couldn’t fit in her food bag. For the remainder of my hike, I would carry an avocado whenever possible.

I suck at taking photos, especially of people, so I swiped this one from Monarch’s Facebook page.

And once more, the trail schooled me in the folly of judgment. Upon first meeting Monarch I had made up a story in my head — standoffish, snooty, East Coast city type. Talking to her, I saw that she was reserved, but no snob, and we had a great conversation. Far from being the entitled, snooty city slicker I’d imagined, she was a veteran of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who had been widowed at 23 when her spouse committed suicide.

My judgment of Monarch was — surprise! — wrong, I wrote. When will I ever learn?

~

At 6:20 the next morning, I crossed the Delaware River.

The best thing about Pennsylvania, I wrote, is that it makes fuckin’ New Jersey feel like the Promised Land. Free at last! Free at last! Thank you trail gods, I’m free at last!

The Trail is the Teacher is Clay Bonnyman Evans’ episodic account of his 2016 Appalachian Trail thru hike.

June-July 2016

After a pleasant morning walk that included a couple of pastoral miles through Sky Meadows State Park, my cousin Margot picked me up at Ashby Gap (mile 989.1) and drove me to her 50-acre horse farm near Upperville, Va.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in a whole new world. The house built by her partner, Jim, was big, beautiful and clean, surrounded by forest and swales of green pasture. The farm had a pleasant, rustic feel, and Margot, a former Grand Prix competitor in dressage, spent much of her time working with and caring for her tall, German warm-blood mare, Layla, who has a pleasant, almost doglike disposition.

After I showered and tossed my filthy clothes into the washer, Margot drove me into town for a small resupply. The grocery store catered to, shall I say, the rather more upscale clientele who gravitated to this fox-hunting, mansion-dwelling corner of Virginia. There was nary a ramen packet or box of Pop-Tarts in sight.

You might be thinking, “Good! Who eats ramen noodles—the very definition of plastic, industrial ‘food’—or Pop-Tarts, which are little more than a super-efficient delivery system for the galaxy’s most fanatically processed white flour and sugar, the heroin of the snack-food world?”

Well, I do, for one, but only when on trail—and I’m not proud of it. But I’m not the only one who errs on the side of convenience over nutrition on a long-distance hike. A typical eating day goes something like this for me:

Shoot up in the morning with a Pop-Tart or some peanut-butter crackers

Dinner—Idahoan brand instant mashed potatoes; ramen noodles (I love these especially because they are salty, they put fluids in your system, and because it’s super easy to clean up after cooking); Knorr Pasta Sides; or, when I don’t want to mess with the stove, I’ll make “dinner” out of any of the above.

If that sounds terrible, well … you’re right. But it’s easy and it’s calories. And when possible, I do go for produce. After a hiker named Monarch gave me an avocado in Pennsylvania, I made a point of buying one every time I went to town. More than anything, thru hikers I talk to crave fresh fruit and vegetables.

Like any thru hiker, I tried to make up calories whenever I hit town. But I also made a point to eat as much fresh food and fiber as possible, to give my system a chance.

At Margot’s that night we ate burgers and mounds of fresh salad. Then the three of us sat on the porch sipping margaritas and watching hundreds of lightning bugs in their nightly, spiraling dance from the ground into the highest branches of a sprawling oak tree….

What a place. I needed this. I often forgetthat it’s ‘so nice for feet,’ I wrote, quoting Smeagol/Gollum, to take a nero.

And then, less than 24 hours after I’d gotten off the trail, I was waving to my cousin and walking back to my life in the woods.

~

Sending boxes to yourself is an old thru hiking tradition. It’s kind of fun to anticipate and open a box, but hiking the Colorado Trail I developed a strong preference for buying supplies in town.

First, two of the four boxes I had sent to me on the CT didn’t arrive in time, despite plenty of lead-time. And when I was able to pick up a box, I discovered that I was sick and tired of all the food I’d packed a few weeks earlier; I go through phases on trail, and my favorite meal one week might repulse me the next. To boot, the cost of sending boxes tends to eliminate arguments from economy. But most important, I realized I wanted to be a good ambassador and support businesses in hiker-friendly trail towns.

Bears Den Hostel in Virginia. Clay Bonnyman Evans.

But because I’d bought too much before leaving home in June, I did send myself one box, to the ATC’s famous Bears Den Hostel (mile 1002.6), a historic stone structure managed by the Potomac Appalachian Trail Club in northern Virginia. Arriving at the hostel at noon, I ruefully recalled another reason I’m not hot on boxes: the hostel was open, but no staff would be available to retrieve my box until 5 p.m.

I pondered leaving it, but anticipating the box, I had done only a mini-resupply in Upperville. My impatient demon protested mightily, but I did the smart thing and decided to kick back for a few hours, then hike on into the evening. The day was sunny and warm, so I rinsed my salt-crusted clothes and lazed around in ragged Runderwear. When it got too hot, I flopped on a couch inside and picked up a book about bears, enjoying two $1 Cokes purchased on the honor system. Eventually, I began to doze.

At around 4 p.m., I stirred awake. A young, happy-looking hiker drifted in through the door, followed by a bearded middle-aged guy wearing work boots, jeans and a serious expression.

I’d first met him outside The Place, a $7 bunkroom operated by a Methodist church that had too many rules for my crew’s tastes. Later, he showed up at Crazy Larry’s. He was tall and delicate looking, with a tumble of curly blond hair, a feathery beard, blue eyes and long lashes, extremely open and friendly.

I righted myself on the couch while Scavenger made his goodbyes to the man.

“I’m going to come back when I’m finished,” he said. “I mean it.”

They exchanged a long, sturdy embrace, then the guy went out, climbed in an old pickup and drove away. There had to be a story here, I knew; the kid should have been hundreds of miles ahead of me by then. Turns out that Scavenger had gotten injured and spent the last month working at the Stony Brook Organic Farm in Hillsboro, W.Va., run by a religious group known as the Twelve Tribes. The sect is well regarded among hikers for its cheap or free lodging, its Yellow Deli restaurant in Rutland, Vt. and the nearby farm.

“It was such an amazing experience,” the kid told me. “They’re all about love.”

Having talked to Twelve Tribes members in my hometown, Boulder, Colo., I had a different view. The sect eschews the Christian label, arguing that Christianity is “the whore of Babylon,” but still awaits the return of Jesus. They practice a brand of fundamentalism based on the Mosaic laws of the Hebrew Bible (aka the Old Testament) and preach that the messiah will not come until the “true church” is restored, as described in Acts 2:32-37, which states in part that, “no one claimed any of his possessions for himself, but everyone shared everything he had.”

The group, founded by Elbert “Gene” Spriggs, aka Yoneq, who claims a direct line of communication with God, grew out of the 1960s Jesus Movement and is now widely viewed as a cult. Critics cite its alleged authoritarianism, anti-Semitism, and misogyny, as well as child labor and child-abuse practices. I’d certainly picked up on the misogyny in my experience with the group and saw how they preyed on the lonely and vulnerable. Some hikers told me their experiences with the tribe were fantastic, no proselytizing, no weirdness, but I didn’t want to put even a nickel in Spriggs’ pocket.

I finally got my box a little after 5 and, as expected, groaned at the contents—more tuna? But calories are calories, and I dutifully stuffed it all in my bag. Antsy after the long delay, I made a snap decision to follow a different blue blaze than the one on which I’d come, skipping a couple hundred yards of the AT. I’d just casually set fire to my purism, but if anything, it felt strangely liberating.

Props to the wag who added the line at the bottom of this sign at the southern entrance of Virginia’s much-ballyhooed “rollercoaster.” Clay Bonnyman Evans.

Bears Den lies about halfway through the reputedly brutal Roller Coaster, described by Awol as “13.5 miles of tightly packed ascents and descents.” There are even warning signs at the beginning (upon which one witty hiker had drawn a mark and the words, “Must be at least this tall to ride.”). Lava, who had come through here already—he wrapped up his hike at Harpers Ferry on May 27 to attend a wedding and move with Heather to Colorado—texted me that it was “no big deal,” and I agreed; at any rate, the Roller Coaster didn’t seem any more difficult than the rest of the trail so far. What’s more, it provided a happy milestone to celebrate: the Virginia-West Virginia border. I never really considered taking the so-called “four-state challenge,” covering the 44 miles from the Virginia border to Pennsylvania in one day.

Thru hikers often talk about catching the “Virginia blues,” a mental and physical doldrums that hits somewhere on the 540 miles from Tennessee to West Virginia (nearly a quarter of the trail). True, I’d had a break, but I never got the blues, despite a couple of brutal days. I adored Virginia—on my last day I saw a beautiful, finger-thin smooth greensnake (Opheodrys vernalis), several deer and, as dusk approached, an errant possum—and it would be my favorite part of the trail until New Hampshire and Maine.

The ATC’s Blackburn Trail Center. Anne Baker/ATC.

I didn’t roll into the ATC’s Blackburn Trail Center until 8:15, but that was early enough for me to receive a bowl of Neapolitan ice cream and a soda from caretakers Trailboss and Sandi. Despite the fact that Independence Day still two days away, we got to watch four or five distant fireworks displays through a gap in the hills. The lightning bugs added a local touch on the dewy lawn below.

Before noon the next day I tumbled into the historic town of Harpers Ferry (mile 1,023.1), home of the ATC and the “spiritual halfway point” of the Appalachian Trail.

The 12.5 to Harpers were relatively flat, but often rocky — not so nice for feet, I wrote in my journal. Another preview of PA?

A hiker’s judgment of any given town or hostel is dependent on a host of variables, and should be taken with a grain of salt. But considering how large as it looms in AT lore, Harpers Ferry was a real disappointment to me. It is a beautiful town, situated on a forested hill at the confluence of the mighty Potomoc and Shenandoah rivers, and steeped in history. It was here that abolitionist John Brown raided the armory on Oct. 16, 1859 with 21 men, including a freed slave and a renegade slave, portending the bloody civil war to come.

Spiritual halfway point it may be, but Harpers Ferry is not much of a hikers’ town. The cheapest hostel charges $33 for a bunk, while the outfitter and general store is the size of a small-town barbershop, and surprisingly expensive (I paid $23 to replace my pole tips, though at least the guy behind the counter was nice). The restaurant where I ate lunch was fine, but unexceptional, though I did attract the attention of a nice tourist who wanted a photo with a real — and, I might add, filthy — thru hiker. Even the staff at the Appalachian Trail Conservancy headquarters struck me as rather cranky.

This tourist wanted to pose with a genuine, filthy thru hiker in Harpers Ferry.

I spent only a couple of hours in town, then headed for the bridge across the Potomac, where I was stopped by a Harpers Ferry National Historic Park ranger making a presentation to a group of tourists who clearly saw me as some form of migratory wildlife.

“Do you mind if they take pictures?”

Halfway across the bridge, a young guy trotted up behind me and called out. He was just out of the Marines and full of questions about thru hiking.

“What’s the one piece of advice you’d give to someone who wants to hike the trail?”

I thought for a moment. “Always put everything in its proper place in your pack, no matter what, so you know where to find it.” He seemed underwhelmed by that bit of (trust me, excellent) advice, but continued to pepper me with questions as I walked.

“You can do it,” I said. “If you made it through boot camp and a hitch in the Marines, trust me, you can do this.”

Once across the bridge I turned, gave him a fist bump and stepped into Maryland, sixth state on the NOBO AT. The next three miles, walking alongside the historic Chesapeake & Ohio towpath, are without question the easiest on the Appalachian Trail, and despite walking 23 miles, that was the easiest single day I would have on the trail.

After a hot, muggy, 1,000-foot climb I followed the ridge another few miles to Gathland State Park, where I filled up with water, having read in Awol that the water source at Crampton Gap Shelter (mile 1,034.1) sometimes runs dry at midsummer.

The next morning, the Fourth of July dawned misty and muggy and stayed that way. I turned my ankle hard, for about the 20th time in my first 1,000 miles (thanks to my sturdy Bonnyman sinews, it caused only a few moments of sharp pain, but nothing worse). Pennsylvania gets all the bad press, but it seems to me the troublesome rocks actually start cropping up in Maryland.

How much worse can PA really be? I worried in my journal. The Arcteryx shorts are a disaster.Murderous chafe.

Next chance I got, I was sending the shorts home, along with (my secret shame) the laptop I’d lugged with me, in case my agent needed me to work on my manuscript or I snagged a quick freelance assignment, and another three pounds worth of stuff.

“So I’m able to walk because I’m actually balanced. It takes a lot of core strength, and my braces lock my knees when I’m standing. So when I stand I just have to balance with my upper body,” she told ESPN.com. “But it doesn’t matter out here. You’re a hiker. You’re part of the family.”

One more time I wish I’d listened to my gut and turned aside from my forward progress for just a few moments.

(Note: Much to my dismay, in 2017 Kozel’s inspiring story fell apart after she earned substantial media coverage for purportedly hiking the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail during one of the most challenging years ever, due to record snowpack in the Sierras, roaring river crossings, wildfires and more.

(After a long-standing, well-known trail angel quietly asked on social media if any other 2017 PCT hikers had seen Kozel — who stands out with her leg braces and highly unusual gait — it became sadly apparent that nobody, not a single hiker, had seen her anywhere on the trail that wasn’t at a trailhead.

(In addition, nobody at the PCT’s most famous, and all but mandatory, resupply points, such as Kennedy Meadows, reported seeing her, and eagle-eyed hikers noted that her “finish photo” contained anachronisms (it turned out to be faked). When she altered her finish date to compensate for some of those problems, she only exacerbated doubts, since hikers do not forget their start or finish dates, and her new start date would have required her to average nearly 31 miles per day, every day, across Oregon and Washington—when she herself has publicly stated, and video evidence confirms, that she is very slow, traveling 1 mph over level ground. Talk about long days.

(Soon, the AT community began examining her 2016 “hike” and it became clear that her documentation was similarly sketchy: nobody had seen her on the trail (except at or near well-trafficked trailheads) walked with her, or camped with her, an impossibility. To boot, looking back on media coverage and video, it became apparent that she could never have completed the trail in the time frame she claimed, and probably not at all. And while she clearly has a disability, hiker-sleuths unearthed three separate stories she’d given media about the cause of her paralysis.

(It’s too bad. Kozel would be inspiring simply doing sections of the trail, but in her exaggerations, she has lost all respect and credibility. Worse, she doubled down on her insistence that she did as she claimed, against all evidence, and began complaining about attacks on her “integrity.”

(A few people defended her and criticized those who began asking questions and uncovering evidence, but there can be no excuse for misleading people like this, especially when it appears that she gained monetarily from the ruse and potentially put other disabled people in danger by giving them false hope that they, too, might be able to hike these big, dangerous, difficult trails. Indeed, excusing Kozel’s fabrications because she is disabled is every bit as prejudiced as mocking or ignoring the disabled, since is singles her out for “different” treatment.)

At Annapolis Rocks, the (extremely low) high point of Maryland, I committed my second sin against purity, cutting back to the trail on a different blue blaze than the one on which I’d come in. I ate lunch on a mist-covered cliff with Smeagol, a young French woman. By the time I reached Ensign Cowall Shelter it was raining and I decided to call it in after just under 21 miles. A half dozen other hikers breezed by and continued on into the rain.

All these guys talking about their 30-mile days made me feel like an idiot for stopping, I wrote. Oh well, at least I’m dry.

Officially leaving the South … and descending into the purgatory of Pennsylvania. Clay Bonnyman Evans.

It wasn’t raining when I crossed the Mason-Dixon line into Pennsylvania the next day, but I wasn’t dry.

This humidity is a fucking killer. When it’s high 80s and humid you never dry, I wrote. I’ve got chafe in places I’d never imagined—hips, armpits, thighs? Stopped at a spring to wash my salty, slimy self from head to toe.

Later, I ran into The Dude, one of my favorite people I’d met on the trail down south, but the meeting felt disconnected and unsatisfying.

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Clay Bonnyman Evans is a freelance writer who lives in South Carolina and Colorado. In his career as a journalist, he wrote for such publications as the Los Angeles Times, Orange County Register and Daily Camera (Boulder, Colo.)
His book, "Bones of My Grandfather," will be published by Skyhorse Publishing in July 2018. It is the story of his grandfather, First Lt. Alexander Bonnyman, Jr., who was killed in the battle of Tarawa on Nov. 22, 1943 and posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor.
Since 2010, Evans has been involved with efforts to recover Marine remains from Tarawa with nonprofit History Flight, Inc. He was present in May 2015 for the discovery and exhumation of his grandfather, who was reinterred in Knoxville, Tennessee in September 2015.
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